Constant
by E.Wills
Summary: Astrid is a source of strength and support as Hiccup comes to grip with his role as Berk's new chief.


Hiccup closed his eyes, pressing his palms into them until it just about hurt. He took a deep, steadying breath. Such things had never worked, though he figured it was worth a try. But the anxiety did not abate—cold, unflinching reality remained. He could feel it all coiled up and twisting within him, puncturing and filling him with venomous guilt and self-doubt. He could vomit.

If he focused on any one thought for too long, his body tensed, and he broke out in a cold sweat. He was on the edge, overlooking rushing waters and violent undertows—and he had to jump. That part was inevitable. His future, his destiny, was laid out before him like it had been written in the stars, and perhaps he could have seen it—could have intervened—if he had been wise enough to look?

He pressed his hands into his face until he winced. Starbursts obscured his vision when he opened his eyes again, but they did nothing to erase the fur cloak draped expectantly across his bed. He felt as if it was judging him, laying there with heavy importance and the truth that he was not the right person for it; he was not worthy, and he had not earned it. For what had he done beside suffer the misfortune of being born into the wrong lineage at the right time? He could've been anyone. He could've been anywhere. But he was the late Chief's son, and this was Berk.

The sun crested over the horizon. He had not had the chance to fully process things or grieve—now he had to wear a cloak much too big for him—built for a taller, better man—and pretend he didn't ache under the weight of it.

"Hiccup!"

He recognized that voice, and his chest tightened. Astrid was calling up to him, because she was always there for him, even when she shouldn't be; and a sane person certainly wouldn't be. She knew what to say and how to motivate him when he needed that extra kick to get going—but that was alright when he was just concerned with dragons and realizing the impossible. Or a father with grand expectations…

But that morning he was vulnerable, and Astrid always could see right through him. The man he was now was not someone he wanted her to meet.

She came upstairs anyway.

He didn't need to speak. She took one look at him and she knew—if his outward appearance reflected the utter mess within him, then of course she knew. But pity was not her way, so she strode over to him. With eyes sharp and determined, she pulled him up from where he sat, disregarding all his resistance.

"I can't do this," he said.

"You will do this," she replied. "Hiccup, you must do this."

He opened his mouth to argue, but it was pointless. All the words he'd say came from a place of grief, where hope was unheard of and no endeavor was successful besides stewing in one's own misery. Astrid would not allow it—at least, not until the day had concluded and there were no more pressing matters than holding one another in the dark.

She was right, as usual, in all her steadfast support of him.

It was not a matter of "can" or "can't"—and it was certainly not a matter of want. He had a responsibility, and one he could no longer avoid; one he had delivered to himself through reckless and impetuous youth. This was his fault; if not directly, then by his overarching design. He could own that now, by all the hard lessons learned at the expense of others. His time had come to shoulder the burden of his bad decisions: something he had been previously spared by the luxury of his social standing.

He picked up the cloak, and it was as heavy as he expected it to be—but no more than he needed it. Astrid helped fasten it in place with a simple broach. He didn't look so odd in the reflection of her eyes.

"You are the Chief," she said, and Hiccup detected the pride in her voice that made an otherwise tender moment bittersweet; the circumstances were not lost on either of them.

"I'll try not to disappoint you," he replied, trying to smile, trying to tease.

She managed it for him, straightening the broach that held the cloak in place. "It's been a long time since you had to worry about that, babe."

She rocked up on her toes to kiss his cheek; it tingled where he thought he'd been numb.

"Things are different now," he said.

Astrid sighed, letting her hand fall into the thicket of fur now draped over his shoulders. "Yes. They are."

And though Hiccup had to step out into the village and face the changes and the consequences he had brought about, Astrid walked beside him with a firm and unrelenting grip on his hand.

Because she was always there, even when she shouldn't be.


End file.
